


True North

by msgenevieve



Series: Back and Forth [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Sequel, Smut, fic prompt, honeymoon fic, mention of Ruby/Victor, wedding fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:58:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1860579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with getting married, Emma thinks, is that you actually have to organise a wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True North

**Author's Note:**

> Set in my Freaky Friday universe and written as a prompt request by the lovely rumsy4 on tumblr (and seconded by quite a few other people, lol). This fic has a little extra something in the form of a college scribblecat27 created from images I’d found while writing this story, so many heartfelt thanks to her.

~*~

The problem with getting married, Emma thinks, is that you have to organise a wedding.

Which is totally _fine_ if you’re a wedding planner, not so much if you’re a senior associate in a thriving law firm and your caseload seems to be growing by the day.  Also not so much if your intended life partner is more than happy to help, but then just keeps saying that all he wants is what _you_ want. 

It’s after midnight, and she’s been staring at pictures of cakes and flowers for so long that her laptop screen has started to blur in that very special way she remembers all too well from law school.

“What are you doing, love?”

She almost jumps out of her skin. “Jesus, you want to give me a heart attack before we even make it to the church?” Leaning on the kitchen counter beside her, he quirks one dark eyebrow (because they’ve already decided on an outdoor wedding, one of the few decisions they’ve actually made) and she frowns at him.  “You know what I mean.”

Running a careless hand through his hair, making it stand even more on end, he studies her computer screen for a few seconds, then drops a kiss onto her pyjama-clad shoulder. ”Stop looking at the pretty pictures and come to bed, Swan.”

“Easy for you to say.”  She clicks through to the next page of the florist’s image gallery.  “You’re not the one whose mother is emailing every day wanting to know all the gory details.”  As soon as she says the words, she wants to bite off her tongue, because his mother died when he was halfway through law school and while it’s not a forbidden topic, she feels like she’s just thrown it in his face. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“No harm done, darling,” he tells her softly, and she knows he means it. Leaning forward, he kisses the top of her head, then closes her laptop.  She doesn’t have the energy to protest.  “You know I don’t care where or how we do it, as long as we do it.”  This patently unhelpful statement is accompanied by a gallant leer, and she shakes her head at him.

“Are we still talking about the wedding?”

He has the nerve to look mortally offended.  “What else could I possibly mean?”  She would believe him if he didn’t promptly put his lips to her ear and whisper a few sweet (okay, filthy) nothings about how he couldn’t wait to get her alone on a deserted beach when ‘all the madness is said and done and we’ve left everyone behind on the other side of the world’.   She knows he’s all talk tonight - they’re both exhausted - but it still makes her break out in a wave of goosebumps, damn him.

Closing her eyes, she leans into him, letting the heat of his sleep-warmed skin sink into her own.  “I’m looking at the pretty pictures because we still haven’t decided _where_ we’re getting married and I have to look at something, okay?”

He moves to stand behind her, gently massaging her shoulders. “Well, I suspect I know what your mother’s vote for a location would be.”

Biting back a groan as his thumbs find and knead a particularly tight knot, she tilts her head back to look at him.  “You want to get married in Maine?  Really?”

He smiles down at her. “It’s very picturesque.”

It’s tempting.  It’s so tempting.  Her parents would be delighted and the logistics would be so much easier.  She can’t help feeling, though, that he’s giving into her on every point, and that’s not like him. “But what about your family?”

“Are you suggesting we deprive my nephew of the chance to acquire another stamp in his passport?” Wrapping his arms around her, he picks up her left hand, his thumb rubbing gently over the gleaming ring on her finger.  “Besides, what about _your_ family?”

“They would love it,” she admits, easily able to picture the delight that would bloom in her mother’s face when she heard the news. 

“Then it’s settled.”  A hint of his courtroom voice has crept into his words, and she can’t help smiling.  “Maine it is.”  His hands firm on her shoulders, he puts his lips to her ear once again. “Now that _that_ problem has been solved, can we go back to sleep?”

She starts to slide off the kitchen stool, thinking longingly of their bed. Her bare feet hit the floor at the same time she remembers something very important, another problem yet to be solved.  “Wait, wait.”

He sighs dramatically, looking for all the world as though he’s prepared to carry her over his shoulder to their bedroom.  “What now, love?”

“ _When_ are we getting married?”

Cupping her face in his hands, he gazes at her with such open adoration (albeit a little sleepy) that she almost has to look away.  “Tomorrow would work very nicely for me, Swan, but I suspect you’ll want more time to organise your frock.”  He waits for her to smile (of course she does) then presses on.  “Is three months from now too terrifying a prospect?”

Now she knows for sure that, underneath all his understanding ways, he truly is living on Planet Optimism. Either that, or Planet Man.  “Three months? Are you kidding me?”

“Four?”  He curls one hand around the nape of her neck, the other sliding down to catch hers, his fingers tangling with hers.  “Don’t be so cruel as to make me wait _six_ , love.”

She meets his gaze steadily.  She might be bone-tired and more than a little distracted by the brush of those talented fingers, but she recognises his negotiation mode when she sees it.  “Five.”

His eyes widen, maybe at the note of finality in her voice (he’s not the only one who argues for a living), then he grins.  “I bloody _love_ you, Swan.”  Before she can answer, he’s kissing her, his mouth firm and warm, the kind of kiss that makes her wish she wasn’t so exhausted, then sliding his arm around her shoulders and turning her in the direction of their bedroom.  “Bed.  Right now, before we think of some other blasted decision that needs to be made in the middle of the night.”

She’s almost on auto-pilot as she climbs into bed, wincing at the time on the clock (God, the alarm will be going off in five hours).  It only takes a few minutes before sleep claims them both, but not before she tells him that she bloody loves him too, and feels the answering squeeze of his hand around hers.

~*~

Five months and two days later, they get married in Maine on a beautiful spring afternoon.

Liam and Annie and James come from London, of course, as well as a few stalwart friends who don’t blink a single eye between them at the notion of flying to the other side of the world.  He suspects they’re only coming to ensure he’s not pulling their collective legs with this wedding lark, but he’s very happy to see them.

They keep things simple.  Emma had only wanted Ruby as her attendant, which meant he didn’t have to make any awkward groomsmen decisions, so that definitely worked for him. Liam is his best man.  His nephew James carries the rings.  Liam’s wife Annie sits beside Emma’s mother, their dark heads close together as they quietly talk before the bride appears, and a wistful pang twists through him.  His mother would have loved everything about this day, and he suddenly misses her more than he has in years.  He always had Liam, though, and now he has Emma, and his world view suddenly seems filled with endless possibilities.

The trees around them are strung with fairy lights, although it’s too early to truly appreciate them, and there are flowers everywhere, blowsy cream-coloured blooms that scent the air and make him think of his grandmother’s garden in England.   At Emma’s insistence, he’d had a hand in the decision making for all of it - even though he hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told her that all he needed from this day was to marry her - but he’s still amazed at the elegant simplicity of it all. 

Of course, the one secret she kept from him was the one secret he’d really wanted to know.  Her dress had been a subject of many hushed feminine conversations and text messages he wasn’t allowed to read.  He’d done his best to extract even the smallest detail from her, but his Swan was made of sterner stuff than most of his clients, and he hadn’t managed to glean a single jot of information.

The sound of the string quartet bursting into tune startles him, and his pulse quickens. Friends and family rise to their feet in a wave of excited whispering, and he has to fight the urge to stand on tiptoe or crane his neck to get a better view.  It’s been almost twenty-four hours since he’s seen her - she’d insisted on separate rooms last night, who knew she’d be such a stickler for that old school tradition? – and his nerves have finally begun to jangle.  

What seems like an eternity later, Ruby starts to make her way towards where he and Liam are waiting, looking for all the world as though she’s just stepped off a bloody Versace catwalk.  Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Victor watching her as though he’s witnessing the birth of Venus firsthand, and can’t help grinning.  He knows that feeling all too well. 

The music begins a lush new coda as Emma and David walk into his field of vision, and his heart almost leaps out of his chest, because he suspects he’s going to have to find a word that surpasses ‘breathtaking’.   Beside him, Liam whistles softly under his breath.  “Nice work, little brother.”

“Younger brother,” Killian corrects without thinking, his gaze still riveted to the woman walking down the grassy aisle on the arm of her father.  After all his boasting earlier to Liam on the subject of not being nervous, his palms are decidedly damp and his pulse is pounding in his ears.  “Bloody hell,” he mutters, again without thinking, and Liam chuckles quietly.

The bride is indeed worth seeing.  Her dress is the colour of clotted cream, rich and warm, a strapless sheath that leaves her arms and shoulders bare, showing and hiding the curves of her body at the same time (how women do that, he has no bloody idea).  Her hair is a simple tumble of waves and curls spilling down her back, and she’s so astonishingly beautiful that he suddenly wonders what on earth she’s doing walking down the aisle to meet _him._ He wants very much to tug on his shirt collar - he’s worn ties all his working life, and today he feels as though it’s choking him – but he keeps his hands clasped in front of him, mirroring Liam’s relaxed stance, and by the time Emma is close enough for their eyes to meet, he’s ready.

Then she smiles at him, her green eyes aglow with happiness, her bright hair burnished to gold by the late afternoon sunshine, and the world seems to tilt on its axis in the best possible way.

David’s handshake is firm as he gives Killian a quick nod, then kisses his daughter on the check as if in farewell. Distracted by Emma’s nervous smile and the feel of her hand suddenly in his, Killian has to wait until afterwards to learn that David was already crying by the time he’d reached his seat next to Mary Margaret.  (Later, his new father-in-law claims that it was an allergic reaction to the flowers. No one, not even his doting wife, believes him.)

Their vows are a blur.  All he knows is that they both get all the words right and Emma’s eyes are glittering with tears by the time by the time they’ve finished.  He doesn’t cry (it’s a close thing, his eyes burning hotly a few times as he speaks) but there’s a lump in his throat the size of Boston.  Finally it’s over, they’re both sporting a new piece of gleaming jewelry (James performed his duties with a solemn expression very much like his father’s) and he hears the words, “You may now kiss the bride.”

He does, and he’s not sure if the rushing in his ears is his heartbeat or the sound of their friends and family cheering.  Perhaps it’s a little of both.  Either way, Emma’s face is deliciously flushed with pink when it’s over, her hands clutching at his tightly, and he sees his own joyous disbelief mirrored in her eyes. 

Married. 

_Bloody hell._

As if she can read the unspoken words etched across his face, she grins.  “I know, right?”  Then she laughs, a lilting sound that fills him with warmth, and he can no more stop himself from gathering her into his arms and kissing her again than he could stop himself from kissing her that very first time.  Vaguely he’s aware of the sound of whooping and polite catcalls, but he doesn’t care.  Emma Swan is wearing his ring and is kissing him as though she’s never planning to stop, and that’s enough for him.

They stop kissing eventually, of course.  Their families are waiting to congratulate them, and their friends are thirsty.  He shakes the celebrant’s hand, too elated to be embarrassed by the public display of affection in which he’s just indulged, then Emma’s hand is tucked into the crook of his arm and they’re walking back along the same short path she’d travelled to meet him.  Besieged on both sides, he squeezes her hand quickly before she’s enveloped by her mother’s embrace. 

David’s eyes are still suspiciously red, but his handshake is as crushingly firm as ever.  “Welcome to the family, _son,_ ” he says with a grin, and Killian knows the only way to deal with Emma’s father is to fight fire with fire, so to speak. 

“Thanks, _dad,_ ” he returns cheerfully, and David blinks, as if only just realising having a thirty –three year-old ‘son’ might be somewhat aging, then shakes his head, smiling.

“Why don’t we stick with David and Killian?”

Killian claps him on the back, more relieved than he cares to admit that he appears to have broken through the last vestiges of the other man’s reserve.  “Works for me, Dave.”

Liam whisks him away then (not before he’s had the chance to kiss his new mother-in-law and the chief bridesmaid, though), telling him that he’s not allowed to offend his new relatives until at least after the bridal waltz.  Annie is there too, beaming and wet-eyed, and she hugs him tighter than she ever has before. 

“I’m so happy for you, Killian.”  She nods to where Emma is being embraced by an older bearded man with very fierce eyebrows.  “You two will _never_ be bored with each other.”

He looks at her.  She’s been part of his brother’s life since they were both at university, and now he wonders how he and Liam managed to find such women. “No, I can’t imagine we will.”

Annie grins as Liam wraps his arm around her waist.  “That’s true love, darling.”

He spends some time with his old friends from home, all of them with wives and serious girlfriends in tow, shake his hands until his fingers are feeling more than a little bruised.  Thanks to the joys of the internet, he’s been keeping up with their lives over the years, so the conversation isn’t ‘what the devil have you all been up to?’ but rather more along the lines of ‘punching above your weight a little, don’t you think, mate?’  It’s an exchange of affectionate insults as only old friends do and he enjoys it greatly, but every moment he’s looking for _her,_ and finally he claps them all on the back and tells them to have a drink on him.

He finds Emma still deep in conversation with the older, bearded man, and realises he’s about to finally meet her unofficial Uncle Leroy, lifelong friend of her parents, who shakes his hand a little too hard and looks at him with great suspicion. “So, you’re a lawyer.”

He’s trying very hard to remember what it was that Emma had told him about Leroy. “That’s right.”

Leroy scowls at him. “I don’t like lawyers much.”

And he’s just remembered what Emma had told him.  _He’s quite a character, but I think you two will get along okay. Eventually._ “But you like Emma.” Beside him, he hears the woman in question stifle a chuckle. “And _she’s_ a lawyer.”

Leroy purses his lips, looks at Emma, then back at him. “That’s different.”

Killian knows he should quit while he’s behind, but he’s seen the gleam in the other man’s eye, and suspects they’re both enjoying the verbal tussle. “How so?”

The older man’s mouth twitches as though he might smile, but it’s a fleeting thing. “It just is.”

“Seriously, Leroy?”  Emma’s finally had enough, apparently, waving her hand between the two men. “It’s my wedding day.”

Uncle Leroy finally smiles, and it’s a smile of triumph.  “Gotta see if he’s made of the right stuff.”

Emma gives Killian a quick wink as she slides her hand into his. “Trust me, he is.”

Leroy gives them both a strange little bow, then makes a beeline for Emma’s parents, no doubt to report on the conversation that was just had. “ _Character_ is certainly an apt word to describe that man,” Killian notes cheerfully, and Emma laughs.

“We’ll see him twice a year, tops, I promise.”

“Right, then.”   Killian waves a polite hand at one of the three waiters who are now circulating through the guests, then smiles at his wife.  _And what a marvelous word that is,_ he thinks. _Wife._ “Drink?”

Emma blows a stray curl away from her face before giving him a grateful smile. “God, yes.”

They take a moment for a private toast – _here’s to the incompetence of the Boston office’s administration department, love_ – then she reminds him that they’re expected to mingle. They stick together from that point, wandering amongst the guests hand-in-hand.  Ruby has helpfully whisked away Emma’s bouquet (“It’s beautiful but God, that thing is heavy”) to leave one hand free to be squeezed or shaken or, more importantly, hold a champagne flute.

The photographer flits unobtrusively around and amidst the crowd, and it’s only when she comes up to them and says that it’s time to do some formal shots that Killian remembers that she’s there at all.  The woman heads off to round up their family members and Ruby, and Emma puts her half-finished drink down on the closest table.  “Okay, I have to check my make-up before it’s immortalised for all time,” she decides, then breaks off, because Tink (Tinkerbell to no one by her parents) is there, practically fidgeting with anxiety as she approaches them both.  “Congratulations, you two.”

Several months of working in the same firm have made things far less awkward, but Killian still sees a hint of reservation in Emma’s eyes as she hugs their colleague.  “Thank you, we’re so glad you and the others could come.”

“As if Smee would miss out on a free buffet,” Killian murmurs, and the two women gives him an identical ‘really?’ look.  He merely returns it with a toast of his champagne flute. “I merely speak the truth, ladies.”

Tink waves her hand at him, and turns to Emma. “Before you get caught up in all the official proceedings, I have a confession to make.”

Beside him, he feels Emma tense.  He has to admit, he’s suddenly feeling rather tense himself.  Emma knows everything there is to know about his past (and present) relationship with the other woman, but you never knew with Tink. 

“I wanted to tell you that the whole _how you met_ thing, the mistake with the hotel room?”  She pulls a face that could only be described as a comic apology. “That was my fault.”

Killian glances at Emma – she looks as befuddled as he – then back at Tink.  “What do you mean?”

She looks at Killian. “I was the one who submitted our registrations forms to administration for the conference.  I didn’t realise at the time, but I was going through the Business Development file this week and I found the copies of the forms.”  She darts a quick glance at them both, and he realises that she’s trying very hard not to laugh.  “I made a mistake on the form.  I ticked the ‘Ms’ box instead of the ‘Mr’ next to your name.“ She smiles, but it’s not apologetic in the slightest.  “Sorry.”

After another quick hug and a few moments spent admiring Emma’s dress and ring, she’s gone, hopefully to keep an eye on William Smee, and they’re left to process this new information in peace.

Emma looks as though she doesn’t know whether to laugh or down the rest of her champagne in one gulp. “We met because of someone called Tinkerbell?”

“So it would seem.”  He dances his fingers along the delicate curve of her jaw, admiring the intricate makeup that has given her already exquisite face and eyes an otherworldly beauty.  He bends his head to kiss her, and her soft mouth opens beneath his, warm and sweet. “Certainly a story to tell our grandchildren.”

“Slow down, Jones.”  She brushes her nose against his, as if she’s breathing him in. “Let’s enjoy the honeymoon first, okay?”

There are photographs (although he thinks he will never get used to kissing her in front of a camera, they laugh their way through the experience, even when the woman literally has them rolling on the grass for a shot).  Once they’ve moved into the large reception room and have been fortified with another glass of champagne, there are speeches.

Not too many of them, thank God. 

David talks about how finding their little girl again made their life complete, and now they have a son.  A son, he adds, who is only twelve years younger than him, so that’s not awkward at all.

The best man’s speech about how proud he is of his _younger_ brother makes Emma tear up.  Buggering hell, it makes him tear up too, if he’s completely honest. 

When it’s time for the happy couple (it’s a cliché, but damned if it isn’t true today) to speak, they do it together.  It had been Emma’s idea – she’s not comfortable with speaking in front of a crowd, and she figured that as he was a little _too_ comfortable, they would even each other out – and he was happy to carry out her wishes.  In the end, their speech ends up being a jumble of ‘thank yous’ and correcting each other’s recollection of events and trailing off into private jokes, and when they finish, half the guests give them a standing ovation. 

Laughing, he hands Emma a glass of champagne and admires the pinkness of her cheeks.  “Well done, Swan. Not a dry eye in the house.”

“Shut up,” she tells him, kissing him soundly before taking the champagne with an air of relief.  “Just one more thing to get through, I guess, then we can party.”

The one more thing is, of course, the bridal waltz.  Emma had refused to take lessons, arguing that she was not going to pay good money for something she’d only be doing for a few minutes and would probably never do again.  As the best man ushers them towards the small dance floor, her hand squeezes his tightly, and he sees the faint panic in her eyes. “Kill me. Please.”

“It’s just a waltz, darling.”  He slides his arm around her, pulling her close, and the moment her eyes meet his, everything and everyone else vanishes. It’s just her and him and the way she makes him feel, as though he’s woken up from a long sleep.  “Luckily for you, you have a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

~*~

They might have gotten married close to her family and their friends, but their honeymoon destination was carefully chosen to be far, far away.

They’d stayed the night of the wedding in the guesthouse of the wedding venue, as did their families and many of their guests.  It’s hard to feel as though your romantic holiday has begun when you’re having breakfast and coffee with twenty or so people you knew, many of whom are sporting hangovers.  Especially Victor, but that isn’t unusual.  Emma is pretty sure it’s just because of the quality malt whiskey the venue had on offer and not because Ruby caught the bouquet, but only time will tell.

She and Killian are hangover-free, thank God.  It seems that one of the things no one tells you is that when it’s your own wedding, you barely have time to finish a drink or sample the carefully chosen menu.   They did have time to dance though, once the bridal waltz was out of the way (she has to admit, though, her choice of partner made it a pleasure rather than an embarrassing chore), and she’s very glad she’s able to wear flats this morning. 

Her chin propped up in her palm, she watches Killian as he charms her mother near the breakfast buffet.  Like her, he’s dressed in normal clothes once again, and she smiles as she thinks of how he’d looked in his new black suit yesterday.   They may have started the day being extremely well-groomed, but they’d ended the night (God, so much dancing, so much laughing) with her in bare feet and her hair pinned up on her head, him with his sleeves rolled up, his black waistcoat the only memory of his formal wear, the crisp white sleeves of his new shirt rolled up to the elbow.  _Being disheveled while still sober is the sign of a good party, darling,_ he’d told her as he’d spun her around the dance floor, and she’d totally believed him.

When they’d finally managed to convince people that they really did need to make a grand exit, she’d been so pumped on adrenaline borne of sheer joy that she hadn’t minded the teasing comments and wolf whistles.  She’d never been so glad they’d decided to stay overnight at the venue, because they’d reached the honeymoon suite in five minutes flat, and Killian had swept her up into his arms and carrying her through the door, both of them breathless with laughter.

She’d still been laughing when he’d kissed her, his hands gentle on her face, his body solid and warm against hers, and she’d known that she’d made the best decision of her life in choosing him.  They’d made love in a slow, lazy fashion, the pleasure building slowly but surely.  The stress and emotion of the day may have caught up with them, but nothing short of a badly timed fire evacuation would have stopped them reaching for each other when they’d finally slipped into that huge bed in the bridal suite.

Fast forward one day and a plane flight, and they are thousands of miles from anyone who knows them.  Somewhere where the sky above is almost as blue as the water below, the sand as pure and white as snow, and Emma couldn’t be happier.

They arrive just before lunch, local time, and again he insists on carrying her over the freaking threshold of their room.  This time, though, he adds a new twist, propping the door open with his suitcase in the exact same way he’d done on the very first day they’d met as mismatched roommates, and she’s dissolved into laughter by the time he drops her onto the sinfully large bed and dashes back to retrieve it, letting the door close with a reassuring thunk.

“Safety first,” he murmurs, his mouth hot on her throat, his hands busy with her buttons, and the time difference and her aching feet suddenly don’t matter in the slightest.

Afterwards, they dress in clothes they’d never wear at home in Boston (they’re on an island, after all) and present themselves at the closest bar.  Several hours later, having made new friends with too many people to remember and eaten too much and drunk far too many cocktails served in hollowed out coconuts, they slowly make their way back to their room.  He holds her hand every step of the way, and his new favourite thing seems to be rubbing his thumb over the rings on her left hand. 

She doesn’t mind at all.

From their bungalow, they can hear the waves as they reach the shore, a rhythmic watery push-and-pull that’s almost enough to soothe her to sleep as soon as she closes her eyes.

Almost.

It’s after midnight and they’ve already christened the king-sized bed once, but now Killian, obviously refreshed from sleeping on the plane and a good dinner and his irritatingly resilient constitution, runs his hands up her bare thighs, smoothing his palms over her belly, dipping a teasing hand between her legs. “You know, I always  _did_ enjoy sharing a hotel room with you.

“At least now you get to sleep naked.” She grins as she returns the favour, slipping her hand down his back to explore the muscled swell of his naked ass.  “Don’t think I didn’t realise back then that you were just faking those pyjamas.”

He smirks, his eyes glowing with sated amusement. “Well, I knew you wouldn’t have been able to handle it.”

He’s right, of course ( _fuck,_ the memory of walking out of that bathroom and finding him wearing those tatty old sweats and a t-shirt that did nothing to hide the body underneath and everything to drive her out of her mind) but she’s not about to admit it. “Oh, please,  _you_ couldn’t -”

“Shut up, Swan.”

Just like the night before (their wedding night, she thinks, and almost feels giddy at the reality of it) it starts off slow, almost lazy.  It doesn’t stay that way for long.  It’s been a crazy week, so maybe they could be excused for being tired, but the awareness that’s always between them has other plans.  Every brush of his hands on her body sparks a flare of heat beneath her skin, and their kisses grow harder and more urgent, setting a breathless pace that soon has her writhing beneath him, her thighs parting in silent invitation as his mouth finds her breast.   

“God, I love you,” he sighs against her skin, one hand sliding up her thigh to pull it high over his hip, and she feels him, hard and thick against her.  “So much.”

“Good, because I love you and this holiday is non-refundable.”  She grips his already tousled hair in her hands and pulls his mouth up to her for a long, deep kiss, tasting his groan when she curls her tongue around his.  They kiss for a long time (he tastes of coconut and rum and _her_ lipgloss) and when he finally slides into her in one thick thrust that has her sucking in her breath, she can already feel the heavy, hollow ache, rippling low in her belly.

Afterwards, they collapse in a sweaty, breathless heap, and she vaguely wonders if she’ll have the energy to leave this bed for the next ten days.  The blissful silence that only comes after you’ve been thoroughly ravished (God, she’s thinking like him now, too) falls over them, and it seems like a long time before she can bring herself to stir. “You know, I almost forgot.”  She skims her fingertips down his damp back, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, tasting salt on her tongue. “I have a present for you.”

“I think you just gave it to me, love,” he says with a groan of satisfaction, slowly rolling his weight off her to lie on his side, his arm still draped around her waist.  “It’s the gift that keeps giving, as they say.”

She gently smacks his bicep with the back of her hand, then struggles up into a sitting position to stare at their various pieces of luggage.  Where did she hide the damned thing?   Maybe she should wait until tomorrow, she thinks, but she’d put a lot of thought into buying it for him, right down to having it delivered to her parents’ house so he wouldn’t see it, and she really wants to see the look on his face.

“Swan, this isn’t right, I don’t have anything to give you.”

Pausing in her search, she holds up her left hand, grinning.  Even in the dimly lit room, the square cut diamond ring on her finger seems to glow.  “I think this counts, don’t you?”

As he mutters something about bad form, she finds what she seeks wrapped in a brown paper bag, hidden in the bottom of her makeup case, the only place she knows he won’t go rummaging.  Turning back to the bed, she smiles at him, clutching the parcel in her hands.  His gaze sweeps over her, from her painted toenails to her rumpled hair and every place in between, and grins at her.  “Come on, love.  The suspense is killing me.”

She slips back into bed beside him, tugging the sheets up over her bare breasts as best she can (she ignores his smirk) before handing him the small parcel.  “It is, as they also say, just a little something.”

He looks like a boy on Christmas morning as he opens it, and her throat tightens. God, she’s so lucky, _they’re_ so lucky, but that’s all she has time to think before he’s sucking in a soft breath and looking up at her with glittering eyes.  “Oh, Emma.  This is beautiful.”

Emma looks at the ornate compass he’s cradling in his palm, the burnished gleam of it seeming to coming alive against his skin.  “It’s a pocket watch too, you know.”

He turns it over and over in his long fingers, his touch almost reverent, until finally he finds the words she’s had engraved.  

_K.Jones. Here’s to happy endings.  E.Swan._

“It’s so you can always find your way back to me,” she tells him lightly when he still says nothing, suddenly worried that the words that had made her both laugh and tear up when she’d chosen them are all wrong. 

He blinks once, then twice, his fingers closing over her gift, then looks up at her, his bright eyes swimming with tears and an emotion that makes her realise that she’s gotten it exactly right.  He’s still clutching it in his hand when he leans across to touch his mouth to hers in a soft, sweet kiss that warms her blood and her heart and her soul.  When it’s over, he presses his forehead against hers, and even with her eyes closed, she hears the smile in his voice.  “I’ll always come back for you, Swan.”

~*~

 


End file.
